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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920386">Matthew Tkachuk Friendship Tour, The B-Sides, Part 1</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinicles/pseuds/brinicles'>brinicles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Battle of Alberta, Enemies With Benefits, Hate Sex, M/M, Rivals Who Fuck, Theoretical Season</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:02:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920386</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinicles/pseuds/brinicles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Games that matter' is bullshit, obviously, all the games matter. You play games that matter in November and you'll play games that matter in March. If you don't end up playing games that matter in March? Then the games in November didn't matter. </p>
<p>They could both still make playoffs. Matthew makes sure to communicate his optimism. </p>
<p>"Really, it's no big deal. You'll get your confidence back," he says encouragingly. </p>
<p>"Do you ever get tired of being such a little asshole?" Leon seethes. </p>
<p>(The Flames play the Oilers up to five times per year.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Leon Draisaitl/Matthew Tkachuk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Matthew Tkachuk Friendship Tour, The B-Sides, Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><span class="u">Important Note</span>: the text message formatting is a tweak of what is found in <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845">this tutorial</a> and was the most pain in the ass thing I've ever done. <strong>Make sure creator's style is on (button at the top of the work!) if you wanna see it.</strong></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i> Here</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>Sorry that you suck</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>2094</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>Not sorry that you suck </i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>ya try again</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>I can also suck if you want</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>1038 </i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>No hotel?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>i'll send u the pin</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The thing about Leon, Matthew thinks, is does he ever have like, anything happy going on in his head? Jesus.</p>
<p>Matthew watches him bitch inaudibly at an official out on the ice as he's sent to the box even though he had one hundred percent started it. Bad enough that Matthew'd been forced to watch from the bench as the minor shoving match developed near the net, one which escalated into spontaneous spearfighting before someone managed to pull the pile-up apart, yelling and scrunched numbers and sprayed spit, lost sticks and the waft of sweat and homeless mouthguards scattering lamely across the ice. The Oilers had been up by two — you think he'd ease up a little.</p>
<p>Leon glares out at all of them through the glass as he hops over the boards. His gaze follows Matthew all the way out like he's lasering a hole, 1-oh-9, into his back.</p>
<p>The Oilers are up by one by the end of the shift and the entire visiting bench gives off an <em>extremely </em>martyred vibe. Fine, Matthew concedes; he guesses he might also be that miserable and pissy if he was on a team that'd made playoffs once in fifteen years, and he'd specifically had a five-point game in the second round and then they'd lost anyway. He swishes some Gatorade and wipes his palms off on the hem of his jersey.</p>
<p>The Oilers lose in overtime. Leon slams his stick into the boards.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No media, since Lindy got first star and everybody wants to interview <em>The Beast</em>. Matthew's out of the shower fast so he can take his time with his hair, toweling it up just right. He rubs his knuckles over the scruff on his chin, shoots off a few texts while the guys chatter about dinner plans, slips into his suit pants, does up as many shirt buttons as he cares about, slings his jacket over his shoulder. Then he decides to take a stroll. Fall in Calgary, you know, best time of the year for it. Something about that new post-snowfall air, just fresh and crisp and lively, like it'll freeze the sweat right to your skin.</p>
<p>There is no reason to go near the visitors' locker room on his way back. There are a lot of reasons to not, actually, he considers, as some soggy-looking baby d-man sees him coming, turns on his heel, and drags his sweaty-looking buddy along in a hurry to go the long way around.</p>
<p>The door bangs open again and a wave of depressed-sounding chatter wafts out. If noise could droop, this would be what it'd sound like.</p>
<p>The person who comes through with it does not bother to take the long way around.</p>
<p>"Good game," Matthew says amicably as a looming curl of grey hoodie and track shorts shoulders past him, the tips of his hair still dark with water.</p>
<p>"Go fuck a cactus," Leon spits as he disappears down the hall.</p>
<p><em>Well, he's angry,</em> Matthew absorbs as he loops back the way he came.</p>
<p>Johnny, who obviously knows exactly where he'd been, passes him on his way in. "You didn't die," he observes.</p>
<p>"Don't be so disappointed," Matthew puffs up, offended, and tries not to be disappointed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>Pregame waves coffee run. Want anything?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span>🖕</span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>North American hockey as a European is a different thing than North American hockey as an American.</p>
<p>Matthew doesn't know exactly how, obviously, not the ins and outs of how it does and doesn't work, and that's the point. The rules are different. It's tough to compete against someone for whom the rules are different. What are the comparables? What do you measure?</p>
<p>Leon's not really European in all the specific ways that count, some weird griffon-mermaid in-between category that's a little bit of two systems and its own. Grew up in Germany, came up through the Dub. People joke that nobody knows what happens in NTDP and that's true, but who actually knows what the hell is up with the CHL import kids? There's always guys on any team with questionable English here who you can't get the full picture with even if they're happy to share, tiny disconnects you have to work with like borrowed equipment that doesn't fit just right, but Leon moved to North America when he was sixteen. Who would he even tell?</p>
<p>People still golf. Tennis? That's the same.</p>
<p>Leon's dad was a coach back in Germany. He would've known how German hockey worked. Anything else and Leon would've been on his own.</p>
<p>Know your predecessors. Respect the greats. Understand who your peers are.</p>
<p>You have to recognize, Matthew figures, that when your dad is Keith Tkachuk, everybody is your peer. When your dad is Peter Draisaitl, you try to hang onto a roster spot. That's it, that's the whole game.</p>
<p>Easier when you're on the 2010s-2020s Edmonton Oilers, Matthew notes, watching footage on the plane of some call-up pass to the fourth-line center and miss by four feet before Connor McDavid gets on the ice. Then again, whose roster? is the better question. Who knows where Matthew would be today if he'd been picked fourth in 2016? You just luck out sometimes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you think breaking a hotel bed during sex is embarrassing, wait until you break the drywall at a team facility.</p>
<p>This is why you've gotta choose pretty carefully which team's facility, Matthew has concluded, as Leon shoves him face-first against the Rogers Place equipment room wall. It's a concrete wall. Leon's not new at this either.</p>
<p>"Is this what you were thinking?" Leon hisses into his ear, low. Even his breath feels cold, sharp on Matthew's jugular. "Huh?"</p>
<p>"Friendly after-game drinks," Matthew says. "I was <em>thinking</em> — "</p>
<p>Leon grinds against him and reaches around to cup Matthew's dick through his sweats and yeah, obviously they're both a little hard.</p>
<p>"That's what you're calling this?" Leon says, and fine it wasn't exactly what Matthew was thinking, but they've been here before, Leon's clearly not in a patient mood, Matthew's happy to cut the small talk.</p>
<p>It is not comfortable, grappling for leverage, but eventually with enough squirming and a well-placed elbow, Matthew — doesn't exactly get the upper hand, but he's got the cold scratchy concrete against his back and Leon warm and solid pressed against his front, hair tickling his cheek, and he doesn't hesitate to reach down and shove a hand down Leon's shorts and into his briefs.</p>
<p>They're not gonna do this properly, that's never how this exact thing goes. Neither of them have time to be nice to each other, they both have practice, and the kind of bag-skating that'd go on if anybody ever figured out Matthew was limping because he'd got real actual fucked out by an Oiler the night before would probably turn Matthew off sex the rest of the season. Matthew's not sure how it'd go for Leon, but from what he can tell, Leon could have one off game and Edmonton might panic-trade him. That would be a shame.</p>
<p>So it's messy grinding. That's good, it's fine. Leon's warm hand finding the swell of Matthew's dick, sharp inhale, his right shoulder pressed into Matthew's, both of their heads down and panting as they try to work each other off like it's a competition, probably not the most coordinated one. Matthew yelps when Leon goes too hard, and Leon hisses when Matthew twists in retaliation, and Matthew grips Leon's hip hard beneath his thin Oilers t-shirt; Leon, distracted, lets him. Matthew doesn't have fingernails and he still makes sure he leaves tracks, pinching little bruises.</p>
<p>Leon's probably on a deadline, so it's absolutely understandable when he makes a noise of frustration, drops to his knees, bats Matthew's hand away from his own cock and yanks Matthew's sweats halfway down his thighs and puts his mouth on Matthew's dick.</p>
<p>Matthew does <em>not</em> whimper.</p>
<p>Leon's mouth goes from dry to messy-wet in three tries, and it doesn't take much from there: Leon works his hand harder, thumb stroking lightly underneath Matthew's balls, and he tongues the head of his cock viciously and swallows it and Matthew twitches and shoves forward and comes with a little <em>auugh,</em> careful (fortunate) enough to not get it on his pants.</p>
<p>Leon pulls off but manages to catch just enough of it in his hand to leave a mess for someone to clean up, here in this room in the back of Rogers Place between an equipment rack and a stack of rolled foam mats. Then he gets back up, and Matthew slumps against him while he finishes himself off with his own slick hand, hissing into Matthew's ear, Matthew's hand on his abs, pressed all up against his limp body.</p>
<p>Leon bites him when he comes. Like fucking chomps his shoulder.</p>
<p>"Ow, fucking ow," Matthew says, too pleased himself to really care. Leon doesn't respond, obviously, and Matthew gets jizz on his knuckles. He wipes them off on Leon's shirt just because. Leon curses and swats him in the bicep for it.</p>
<p>Matthew does get to watch Leon strip off his shirt as he heads down the back hallway and back to the showers, sweat glimmering between his shoulderblades, so hey, that's worth it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuk-opens-the-scoring/c-5167516</span></i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply">😘</span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuk-nets-one-timer/c-4866262</span></i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i> stitches?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i> Nope! We're good.</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>ok</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>"Where's</em> the footage," Brady says, right into the speaker.</p>
<p>"What?" Matthew says blearily, peeling the side of his face off his flattened pillow because it's four-thirty in the morning in places that aren't Ottawa, then thumbs open the link he'd been sent and blinks at the screen in the dark. "Oh."</p>
<p>"That's <em>fucking hilarious,"</em> Brady says.</p>
<p>Matthew squints and skims. "Look, first of all, we weren't patients, it was a charity visit," he says. "This article makes it sound like we were trying to murder each other in the ER." There's no footage, Brady wouldn't need to ask for it if there were. There is, however, a fuzzy photo, two figures in a hallway in bright orange and red against the narrow off-white walls, and a few embedded tweets from reporters. Matthew's kind of surprised there's even that much.</p>
<p>"You were both at the same charity event? Who booked that one?"</p>
<p>"No," Matthew yawns. "It was different events, there was a scheduling problem? With the kids."</p>
<p>"That's a million times worse than the article makes it sound," Brady says.</p>
<p>"What's the issue? The kids liked it, they seemed excited."</p>
<p>"Oh my God," Brady says. "I'm gonna print this out and make a coaster out of it for dad. Hey, do auction items go for more or less if you get authentic blood on them?"</p>
<p>"That's worth looking into," Matthew says, and hangs up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>Here's another for your pr folks: <span class="u">https://www.brrstoolsports.com/blog/58943539/leon-draisaitl-put... </span></i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>thanks</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>Np</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuks-top-shelf-snipe/c-5370945</span></i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Third and fourth in the Pacific isn't great, but it isn't bad.</p>
<p>'Games that matter' is bullshit, obviously, all the games matter. You play games that matter in November and you'll play games that matter in March. If you don't end up playing games that matter in March? Then the games in November didn't matter. Everybody technically should know this, it's just easy to forget.</p>
<p>They could both still make playoffs. Matthew makes sure to communicate his optimism.</p>
<p>"Really, it's no big deal. You'll get your confidence back," he says encouragingly.</p>
<p>"Do you ever get tired of being such a little asshole?" Leon seethes. They're in the back hallway, close to the parking garage, walking a good three yards apart. Leon's hair is still wet from his shower, cheek red from catching a high stick, yellow-blue fluorescent lighting throwing harsh shadows over the hollows of his face. He looks like a drowned cat.</p>
<p>"No? Do you?"</p>
<p>"Why are you like this?"</p>
<p>"It's fun? Why are you always so touchy?"</p>
<p>"Will you — " Leon peers around, yanks open his car door, shoves Matthew into the backseat, annoyed. Matthew goes down easy, even though a seatbelt buckle digs into his hip.</p>
<p>Matthew likes this for them, he decides, as Leon crams them both into the car, does something to shove the front seat as far up as it goes. It's getting to be a good post-game routine.</p>
<p>The car interior smells clean, new, leather and plastic. The door slamming shut knocks his feet up so that he's bent almost double around both of them before Leon twists them around.</p>
<p>Matthew can't remember if friendly kissing is a thing in Germany, but it isn't gonna be here, that's for sure, not the friendly, anyway, but Leon leans into it, which is the point.</p>
<p>It's shocking every time: that he tastes heated, lips soft, beard rough, mouth rinsed well with water and gatorade, and that everything else about him is comfortable, things considered, ankles around the backs of Matthew's calves and knees against Matthew's thighs and fingers in Matthew's waistband, cool air hitting Matthew's stomach, heart racing, dick aching, hard interior panel of the car door in Matthew's shoulderblades, ow.</p>
<p>"Ow, ow," Matthew breaks away from the kiss to say, and Leon eases up, annoyed and breathless.</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>Matthew shifts. "Nothing, shoulder. Tweaked," and he's gonna have to remember to go see the trainers about it in the morning, when he's not too horny to care about being able to skate.</p>
<p>Leon's eyes are gleaming, pupils just a little wide, spots of color on his cheeks in the dark — his face does something complicated and even more displeased than usual. "From tonight?"</p>
<p>Matthew feels his heart immediately inflate. Warm, too, like a hot air balloon.</p>
<p>"Aw, look at you," he says fondly after he gets it under control, like, <em>darling, babe.</em> "You'll all have to do better than that to put me out of commission."</p>
<p>Leon's face scrunches and he pinches Matthew's bare hip hard and Matthew yelps <em>ow!</em> again, and Leon goes down on him then, mouth sloppy and hot and soft, pinning him by the thighs so he can't move his sore shoulder, can't move anything, really, other than his toes curling uselessly in his shoes. Leon's slow with it, lips opening up and tongue curling as his jaw rocks, burn of his stubble scraping against the soft skin of the joint of Matthew's hip, Matthew's entire spine flexing as he tries not to make stupid noises and Leon sucks and sucks and swallows until Matthew gasps and comes with a groan.</p>
<p>The back of his neck is tacky with sweat again. He might've pulled something in his side. He wishes this weren't in the backseat of a car.</p>
<p>Leon pulls off slow, Matthew's wet dick sliding out of his mouth gradually, and he wipes the back of his hand across his lips and swallows and gets <em>none</em> on the upholstery. Bummer.</p>
<p>Matthew yanks his pants up with one easy, relaxed motion. The waistband isn't sitting on his hips right, but he's not about to shimmy. Leon's watching him, eyes still glittering in the dim, red mouth pressed closed.</p>
<p>Matthew makes a lame attempt to reach for Leon's waistband and Leon smacks his hand away, because Leon doesn't allow himself to have nice things after a loss, probably.</p>
<p>"Right, fine, fine," Matthew says. "You going home now? Bet someone's waiting there to kiss that better." Possibly, actually, Matthew doesn't know, Leon looked like he was maybe in a rush. Maybe Matthew'd interrupted something? Or maybe he's just waiting for his buddy that Matthew sees hanging around for him some nights, the Hall replacement who's on pace to crack ten points this year and who always looks like he's worried.</p>
<p>Leon's eyes go wide and he ducks his head and actually laughs, a tiny warm stunner of a sound, and then he reaches out past Matthew's shoulder and presses something and Matthew's out on his ass on the concrete parking garage floor, his credentials clattering down next to him.</p>
<p>The car door slams shut. Matthew cranes his neck up from where he's laying on his back.</p>
<p>"Ugh, watch it," Matthew says into the air, grit on his elbows and an icy draft down his shirt.</p>
<p>Leon taps the glass and raises his eyebrows pointedly through the window, like he isn't stuck in the backseat of his own car.</p>
<p>Matthew gets up and dusts himself off, dignified.</p>
<p>Larsson does pass him on his way back in, and he gives Matthew a double-take as he goes. Matthew beams.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuk-buries-rebound/c-4694932</span></i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.sportsbet.ca/hockey/nhl/matthew-tkachuks-goal-momentum/</span></i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuk-buries-a-ppg/c-5389999</span></i></span><br/><br/>
</p><p> </p>
<p><span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/oilers/video/pre-raw--draisaitl-113122/c-5273628</span></i></span></p>
<p><span class="greply"><i>lmao</i></span></p>
<p><span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>dont start</i></span></p></div><p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Sorry he's rly easy to squash,</em> Brady texts.</p>
<p>Matthew gets the text alert at a restaurant somewhere on 17th post-home game, a couple drinks in and dinner long done. Sam and Monny are quietly bitching about something that requires googling furiously at each other over Matthew's shoulders behind him; something louder is going on further down the way with Dillon and a few of the younger guys. Matthew lets the front legs of his chair rock back down to earth and thumbs open his messages carefully, phone tilted away. Brady's about to be his excuse to bow out irresponsibly in a few minutes, thank you, Brady, gotta keep the vets on their toes.</p>
<p>Box score says Oilers 2, Senators 1. End of the second. He flicks to the next screen. Seven penalties.</p>
<p><em>Take that back</em>, Matthew texts in response. He doesn't expect a reply and he doesn't get one. He drains the rest of his beer and flips over to Twitter, which tells him nothing except that the refs sadly missed out on the pleasure of seeing Zack Kassian's beautiful stone-cold stunner on a call-up third-pairing d-man in the dying seconds before intermission, so Matthew's assuming things worked out all right.</p>
<p>" — been for like three years, Chucky doesn't even remember, right? Chucky!"</p>
<p>"Sure, yeah," Matthew tells his screen, furrowing his brow. He opens the Uber app. "No, not at all."</p>
<p>"He's not listening to us."</p>
<p>"Sure I am." Matthew finishes requesting his Uber, and swipes nonsense across his screen three times for good measure.</p>
<p>"Look, he's headed out. Got a date, or s…"</p>
<p>"Guys, I'm gonna head out," Matthew announces, pocketing his phone. "Thanks for the dinner, man."</p>
<p>"'Course," Monny says peaceably.</p>
<p>Matthew makes the rounds, gets in a few slaps on the back and heads for the door.</p>
<p>He'd always planned to stay in tonight. Day off tomorrow, but a full day off, non-team responsibilities. Not all the guys have ads and interviews to do, calls and signings, though some of 'em clearly do, but when it's non-team you don't talk about it much — just schedule stuff around nights where you've gotta be unavailable because there's a team dinner, or a movie night with Sam and the guys, or because someone on the team has a connection in whatever city and you've gotta go visit and pet a few dogs (they remember you, Matthew keeps insisting to people, and it's tough to stay mad at someone when your dog is crazy about 'em, so. Also he gets to pet a dog). Bowing out at the right time is a valuable skill, and one Matthew prides himself on continually honing.</p>
<p>He spends the ride back to his car checking the score, scrolling Twitter, and flipping through bookmarked shit from Instagram he'd saved to think about as birthday gifts. When he gets home, he tosses his crap on a chair, opens up his laptop in the kitchen, and turns on the television to watch the last half of the third.</p>
<p>The Oilers barely manage to protect their lead while he skims his email. Leon plays a fair chunk, and Brady gets a few chances when the Sens pull Murray. Twitter's got nothing new to report, though it looks like the Ducks of all people are two periods into deeply fucking the Knights, going by the highlights. Matthew goes back to his shopping.</p>
<p>The game ends 2-1. Matthew tunes out the analysts in favor of considering a set of personalized wineglasses, personalized gloves, personalized slides, personalized… God, who'd wear that? Well, they'd wear it once, anyway, if he got it customized for 'em. He frowns.</p>
<p>Brady pings through a while later.</p>
<p>
  <em>He is tho</em>
</p>
<p>Matthew narrows his eyes.</p>
<p>It's always a slow drive to Calgary from Edmonton, three hours in a car or on a bus; quicker flight. Flames'll play the Sens the day after. He can tell from the build-up on his balcony railing that it's starting to really dump snow out.</p>
<p>He texts back comfortably from his kitchen. <em>Congrats on the L</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Congrats me ur self</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>You ok?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>ya</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>Sorry he says you're really easy to squash</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>fuck u</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On October 25, Matthew purchases two ready-made eight-inch cakes from the local Safeway.</p>
<p>One of them is round, one square. Both have bright green <em>50% OFF</em> stickers plastered over the nutritional info labels. It takes the cashier multiple tries to scan the barcodes. Not where he'd usually order, but you gotta do things differently for every approach.</p>
<p>When he gets home, he uses a knife to cut the cellophane off, gingerly pulls the cakes out of their plastic trays, and sets them next to each other on the kitchen counter. He frowns at them, shifts them to adjust the lightning and shadows. Eventually he picks the square one because the flower decorations seem less melted and the texture of the food coloring less runny. He shuffles the other cake off the counter.</p>
<p>He uses his phone camera to fix his hair; checks the framing, the angles, the focus. He then carefully films a ten-second clip of himself swiping his middle finger through the swirly blue <em>Happy Birthday!</em> icing, sticking it into his mouth and sucking cheerfully.</p>
<p>He reviews the footage three times. Then, satisfied, he tosses both cakes into the trash.</p>
<p>He almost forgets to send it in the end, and only does so while getting off the team bus in Nashville two days later. He doesn't bother to check for a response until morning.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.sportsbet.ca/hockey/nhl/flames-highlight-reel-tkachuk-goal/</span></i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.sportsbet.ca/hockey/nhl/watch-draisaitl-scores-overtime/</span></i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>nice congrats</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>thanks</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuk-deflects-ppg/c-48291703</span></i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i><span class="u">https://www.nhI.com/flames/video/tkachuk-scores-with-skate/c-5230354</span></i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>Hey, can I call you about a charity thing?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>what</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>A charity thing? Connor might've mentioned it already</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span>👍 <i>give me 20 min</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="greply"><i>Wow what'd LA do to piss off Connor?</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="greply"><i>Win in regulation at least</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>fuck u</i></span><br/><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span><i>after that ot fuckup in vancouver u dont get to ask for that</i></span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a bruise forming on Matthew's cheekbone.</p>
<p>It's right near his ear. Like someone swung at his jaw and kinda missed. Specifically like Leon swung at his jaw and kinda missed, but he did catch his face, at least, which is impressive, since Matthew isn't sure Leon's ever landed a punch right in his life. Nurse would've two-tap socked him into next week and Kassian's always ready to put him into the rafters, but from Leon? Matthew only ever sort of gets a shove into the boards, maybe a stick in the gut, and even then only after someone's been hacking at Leon's ankles for an entire period.</p>
<p>Leon's a sloppy fighter, Matthew can tell. His dad had always said the sloppy fighters are the ones who can't <em>just hockey</em>. It's more than just hockey for Leon, and that's why he sucks at it.</p>
<p>Like McDavid: there's a guy who can <em>just hockey</em>. Connor's fought like once in his life. He broke his hand. It's on the internet. Connor McDavid can't fight at all, but he's a captain, and god damn it he'll try, because that's hockey. And then he'll go home and drink some Sponsored By powder-based beverage by his private pool overlooking Edmonton's scenic river valley and work on his non-existent arctic tan because he knows. That's just hockey.</p>
<p>It's still midway through the game. Faceoff is happening halfway through the second period, red-and-orange crowds yelling for blood, music blaring with the same adrenaline. Neither Matthew nor Leon are on the ice.</p>
<p>"What is this to you, huh?" Leon shouts from the bench, leaning out over the boards, the officials trying their best to ignore him.</p>
<p>"A game?" Matthew shouts back. A few people jeer audibly from behind the glass; Matthew sees a sloppy spray of beer go up out of the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>Leon calls him a motherfucker in German. Matthew's pretty sure.</p>
<p>Matthew laughs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Oilers get lucky. Not that you could tell from the disgusted look on Leon's face at the buzzer, like a game-winning goal is just shit work, but <em>somebody's</em> gotta do it. Matthew has concluded that literally nothing could make him look happy. Maybe they'd trained it out of him in those first few lean years. Lose and look happy and you're not in it to win; win and look happy and — ha! Win. Maybe not in Edmonton.</p>
<p>By the time they've done wind-down and media and tossed everything together and called it a night, the Oilers are, by Matthew's understanding, supposed to be headed back to their hotel before their trip back up to the hell part of Alberta. Leon is instead leaning against Matthew's car next to his duffel bag, a bit mussed from his post-game shower, in sweats instead of his suit, looking pissed.</p>
<p>Matthew's finger pauses on the unlock button.</p>
<p>"Oh, what's this? Looks like they forgot something," he says.</p>
<p>Leon doesn't say anything. Leon is going to get into trouble. Which Matthew supports, morally, but it's not like he couldn't have just texted Matthew his room number instead.</p>
<p>The level is deserted. There are cars around, but nobody they belong to, two vacant spaces to the left and three to the right. Matthew's not parked in his usual spot, and Leon, if Matthew's right, doesn't know his usual spot anyway. Matthew wants to know who let him out here, and wonders if he's just leant on whatever goddamn car for the past twenty minutes until somebody pointed him in the right direction, and whose car's gonna be filled with popcorn after next practice. Caramel corn, the rainbow kind, with the candy.</p>
<p>"You think Edmonton'll miss it?" Matthew says once he's close enough to say it low, Leon unmoved just inside the yellow parking line, Matthew's toes resting casually on the paint. Matthew makes a show of digging dramatically for his phone with his other hand without breaking eye contact. "Better call their equipment guys, see if they still want it or not. Or maybe they got replacements ready — "</p>
<p>Leon glances away and back sharp, without raising his head, a quick flash of the eyes. There's a bright red scratch right across the bridge of his nose that looks like a blush if you squint.</p>
<p>"Hear the top draft prospects have got a high ceiling this year," Matthew finishes.</p>
<p>Leon grinds his jaw and glares at him like <em>Matthew</em> was the one who'd started the scrum, like it was <em>Matthew</em> who slashed the stick out of Monny's hands and then yapped at Gio until someone (who? unclear) had to break it up with a yank to the helmet strap. Like it was fair that Ritter had stared at <em>Matthew</em> the whole way back to the bench, like <em>Matthew</em> had anything to do with it? Leon could commit to something for once, geez.</p>
<p>Leon, incredibly, doesn't snap at him just to be petty. "You want to go?" he says, recalcitrant. <em>Before I change my mind,</em> his face says.</p>
<p>Matthew opens his mouth, closes it again. He says, "Why, where are you going? I'm not driving you back up there."</p>
<p>Leon's gaze shoots skyward, and Matthew wants to say something, but Leon doesn't look back down at him — just looks to the left, and over Matthew's shoulder to the right, and his fingers catch the middle of Matthew's shirt and gives it a short, sharp tug so that Matthew stumbles close with an <em>uff,</em> pressed against him, against the car, two layers of clothing uncomfortably damp and warm and crumpled between them.</p>
<p>They're just about the same height, and this always feels odd — not punching up, no shouldering aside, just flesh and bone and muscle in a compact familiar shape somebody else happens to be using. Sometimes Matthew wonders why Leon never topples over on the ice when he runs into him, because build and velocity have to count for something. He wonders if it's a trick of the stance, leaning into it at just the right time, from the right angle. He wonders how Leon always knows how to do it.</p>
<p>Flushed, Leon grabs Matthew's wrist, long fingers wrapped carefully around bone and pulse point. Matthew thinks about resisting just to be — just to — <em>thinks</em>, but maybe that'd be counterproductive, he can admit that.</p>
<p>Slowly, firmly, Leon physically shoves Matthew's hand down the back of his own pants, other hand flat on top of Matthew's fingers to guide them, make sure they slide under his waistband just right. Brush of flimsy cotton shirt, rough elastic, shock of hot bare skin underneath, a smooth warm-soft slide dipping down from the small of his back. It's not like Matthew's never fingered him before, and it's not like he hasn't shoved his tongue into Matthew's asscrack at least a few times, but usually it's while they're, you know, somewhere a bit more —</p>
<p>Matthew's train of thought screeches to a halt and he yanks his hand away. He backs up a step, sudden inch of distance sucking away their body heat in a rush.</p>
<p>The tilt of Leon's jaw looks like a dare.</p>
<p>"Oh," Matthew says, for lack of anything else he can say. There's still lube clinging slick to his fingers where he's holding them frozen against his thigh, and he can feel the warmth lingering on his knuckles. He feels light-headed. "Oh ho-<em>hoh</em>."</p>
<p>"Well? Or I could fuck your face instead," Leon says.</p>
<p>"I'd be okay with that. Those. Either one," Matthew says, clearing his throat. He flashes a smile. "Both."</p>
<p>Leon leans back against the car door, arms crossed, until Matthew unlocks it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The drive back to Matthew's place is ridiculous. Sure there's <em>cars</em> on the <em>roads</em> after a game, but what the fuck, it's been hours, they should be <em>clear.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Are you doing this to be annoying?"</p>
<p>"It's a stop sign, I'm obeying traffic laws — "</p>
<p>"Yeah, by having your engine fucking… shut off, at every intersection?"</p>
<p>"Sorry there's actual traffic in Calgary, a city where people live! <em>Relax?"</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The elevator goes an entire twelve floors up without interruption, Leon staring up at the floor numbers changing on the little LED panel in silence, and Matthew wants it noted for the record that he doesn't pull on Leon's sweatpants elastic <em>once</em> the whole ride.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Leon's clothes are gone within like a second of Matthew locking the door and turning the lights on. Matthew's down to his briefs in two seconds more. It's a collaborative effort. Matthew's not proud.</p>
<p>Neither of them are gonna be able to find their shoes later, and Matthew's going to have a bruise on his shin from Leon kicking him by accident in the mutual stripping effort. They stumble into the closet once they get their hands on each other, mouths missing and getting jaw and nose, crashing into the wall, banging into the shoe rack, not even drunk. When Matthew thinks about it between gasps, if he <em>thinks</em> about it, really pretends to try to remember, he'd have said that their first kiss had been awkward at best — perfunctory, dry, more like an aggressive press of lips to prove the point than anything, and then a second press of the lips, a little more lasting and just as terrible, and a third, and now it's been games and games and games running together and he's just run out of skin to touch, run out of things to do with his mouth except this, wet soft lips and rough sharp jaw and teeth and tongue, licking and tasting mint and spit while his fingers find shoulderblade and rib and hip and warm juncture of thigh —</p>
<p>"Bed. Couch?" Leon mutters. "You've got a, a pile of old clothes you sleep in, or?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, this way," Matthew pants unhelpfully, and discovers that when they're both naked it's kind of tough for either of them to steer, so he settles for a hand on Leon's elbow as he goes ahead, peering around the corners and flicking on lights as he goes like he's sneaking someone in, like he expects to be caught.</p>
<p>There's still a pile of fresh dry-cleaning on his bed when they get there. Well, it'll still be fresh in the morning piled onto the chair in the corner. Matthew pauses for a moment, figuring it'd be rude to push Leon onto the bed, and also kind of getting the feeling that Leon might not actually go. He turns to face Leon and decides he is using this pause to present the bed to Leon proudly, like look, there is, in fact, a real bed in here!</p>
<p>Leon pushes Matthew onto the bed. Easy. Matthew loses his balance and lands on his ass. He's going to have another bruise across his knuckles in the morning from where they slam into the headboard, Leon's grip tight.</p>
<p>Half-light, dimmer, Matthew'd always had that ready. Leon's eyes are rings in the dark, cat-grey and glassy and narrow up close. Leg over Matthew's thigh, elbow digging into the pillow by his head, hovering; he scrutinizes Matthew, close.</p>
<p>"Curtains," Leon murmurs.</p>
<p>"What?" Matthew says, distracted by the slope of Leon's brow and nose. It looks different here, somehow.</p>
<p>Leon looks irritated. "Do we need to close those?" He jerks his head towards the window, floor to ceiling shade up.</p>
<p>Matthew cranes his neck, tucks an arm behind his head. "Nobody's out there," he says.</p>
<p>Leon frowns, paused.</p>
<p>"It — there actually is a skyline out there, if you wanna take a look," Matthew amends, grinning. "We've uh, we've got one of those."</p>
<p>"I live in a house," Leon says.</p>
<p>"Wow, bragger." Leon Draisaitl fucks with the blinds drawn, people who hide outside his house in the bushes.</p>
<p>Leon narrows his eyes and grabs Matthews jaw and wobbles it between his thumb and forefinger like he's messing around with a yappity hand-puppet. Matthew laughs and tries to turn his face away, but Leon leans back in to open back up his mouth with his tongue and Matthew lets him.</p>
<p>They grind against each other, bare, dicks out and hard and leaking, and Matthew palms a hand over Leon's ass and squeezes and Leon reaches down to tweak his nipple so that he yelps into his mouth and pinches back. The graze of his cock against the soft inside of Leon's thigh makes him want to press harder, find all the soft spots, but there's also Leon's fingers like a vise crushing the top of his right thigh and his left forearm, a breath-sucking, dizzying contrast of aches. He thrusts up a little harder, body contact and friction to soothe the tingling itch of it all.</p>
<p>There's condoms in the drawer. Matthew almost falls out of bed leaning over to dig for them, would if Leon wasn't sitting on his thighs, thumb stroking over Matthew's dick like he's timing it so Matthew fumbles, fuck it, grabs a second one, somehow rolls it on while yanking Leon's wrist out of the way, one-handed and breathless while Leon kneels over him.</p>
<p>Leon braces a hand where Matthew's throat meets his shoulder leans into him, shuffling hand-hip-breath-heat-close. Matthew slides a finger down Leon's ass crack, and it's still slick, hot, he must've been slick in his pants for the better part of an hour now. He presses his fingertips lower. Leon lets go of his wrist and reaches behind him to knock Matthew's hand away, and if he wants to finger himself open, fine, so Matthew takes the moment to try to steady himself up against the headboard.</p>
<p>Instead, Leon wraps his hand around the base of Matthew's cock to line it up, shifts his hips until it catches, and sinks down viciously all at once, tight wet searing heat.</p>
<p>Matthew blurts, <em>"Jesus Christ fuck!"</em> halfway through and bites back the rest as Leon keeps going, making a wordless sound like he's been hit.</p>
<p>Leon comes to a rest when he bottoms out, cheek pressed against Matthew's temple, chest heaving, cock twitching between them, and Matthew's vision comes back to him when he remembers to breathe.</p>
<p>"Oh my God," Matthew says when his head stops spinning. That's Leon's body his dick is sheathed up in, Leon's heat squeezing down on him. His dick is in Leon Draisaitl. <em>Warn a person.</em></p>
<p>"Shut up," Leon grits breathlessly into his ear.</p>
<p>Matthew wheezes, overwhelmed. "Are you even gonna be able to walk after this?" That'd gone easier than expected, but also — Leon is so fucking tight. It can't not have hurt. He couldn't not have felt that.</p>
<p>"You think you're that big, huh?" Leon snipes, like every word isn't taking him an effort that Matthew can feel down to his bones, both their bodies shaking, locked together. Matthew can't fill his lungs properly, and that's either his body trying to catch up with the entire sensation of everything, or Leon's thighs' death-clutching at his ribs. Matthew doesn't think it'd be wise to laugh now. He laughs a little anyway.</p>
<p>It takes a moment as Leon shifts, adjusts, uncomfortable, grinding down a little with each twitch of muscle. Matthew's really not — the changes in angle are knocking the breath outta him, his body tense and trying to compensate; he's getting sore all over just trying not to move, not like Leon cares. Leon sits up on his knees finally, pulls up slow — just so that there's a breath of cool air between them, relief — and then rocks back down hot and slick and tight, drawing an involuntary sound out of Matthew.</p>
<p>Leon makes a pleased noise and immediately does it again harder. Matthew snaps his jaw shut and tilts his head back.</p>
<p>Leon figures out an increasingly merciless rhythm as they adjust, clumsy and almost off-balance and frustratingly not exactly right, but when Matthew tries to reach up to reposition them because Leon's knees are digging into his ribcage, Leon just reaches out and slams his wrist back down onto the bed, so. Message received. It's not like Leon's light. Matthew lets him.</p>
<p>Matthew licks his lips and twists against the electricity arching up his spine and thinks, dizzily: well <strong><em>FUCK</em></strong> Leon Draisaitl, right? He seems to enjoy it, couldn't say —</p>
<p>Leon grinds down until his limbs start to lock up, his head bowed, the side of his jaw close to Matthew's face, and he gasps and reaches down to jerk himself off with a half-broken curse. Matthew bites the inside of his mouth, his lip, and stares at the ceiling so he doesn't come too early and lose a whole world of chirping high-ground that nobody will know about but the two of them.</p>
<p>He can tell when it happens, Leon going tight and letting go of Matthew's arm in favor of making embarrassing-sounding punched-out noises and clawing red marks into Matthew's shoulder. He spurts helplessly onto their stomachs between them, his heels digging painfully into Matthew's hips. It sounds stupid but Matthew reflects for a second that this could be better, maybe, if Leon wasn't clamped tight around him like a vise, shivering and dying and satisfied, because Matthew cannot get any leverage, can't grind in as deep as he wants — and then Leon stills and goes just loose enough that Matthew can take the opportunity to reach up and grab his hips and finally, finally jerk up into him a few times, sweet suffocating spark of friction until he comes and feels like he sees every — every damn star in the galaxy for a moment.</p>
<p>His hands are cramping up from clutching Leon's ass like it's a life preserver by the time he gets back down to earth. Leon has to physically remove him by the wrists. Matthew tries to wave him off, and they swat half-heartedly at each other for a bit, panting and dazed.</p>
<p>The condom leaks when Leon finally lifts off and rolls over with a grunt.</p>
<p>Matthew swears and grabs for it, getting jizz all over himself. Leon snickers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gio's gonna go in the next three years, give or take.</p>
<p>He's great, but he's got to stop sometime. If Matthew's still in Calgary by then, most people say he's going to get the C. Maybe not, but most probably. It's all about timing. Right place, right time, right person, right team.</p>
<p>Matthew wonders if Leon's ever thought about asking for a trade.</p>
<p>Not to <em>Calgary</em>, obviously. Leon probably wouldn't even report. If he did, he might actually be the closest to a runner-up to get the C next, management trying to convince themselves and everybody else that he'd be there to stay, and then the two cities would both hate him, probably more than they hate each other. He could be the next Mark Messier, except without the personality or the Cup success. He could be the next John Tavares. Maybe Mitch could set 'em up and they could bond over being franchise traitors and also bland and dead inside.</p>
<p>Still. If it was anywhere else, they might not be able to do <em>this.</em> Whatever <em>this</em> is.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Leon spends like ten entire minutes texting on his phone and ignoring Matthew afterwards. He stretches out on his front on the bed and hogs all the free space, his arms draped over one side, feet dangling over the other, Matthew's pillow tucked under his chin, Matthew's legs sprawled across the backs of his thighs and red marks rising on the round of his ass. It's a nice ass, plush, muscled curve, lines tapering to the thigh, down his long legs to the calves. Matthew doesn't get to really look at it often enough. He tries poking it a few times, but Leon keeps just reaching over and slapping his hand away without looking, and Matthew's only looking to get mildly bruised knuckles here.</p>
<p>It's nice. Warm body and skin contact against the damp sheets, which'll probably smell like sex-sweat, but Matthew can get rid of 'em later.</p>
<p>It's a longer lull than maybe they've ever had.</p>
<p>This isn't hockey territory, shouldn't be, up here in Matthew's bed and on Matthew's sheets and at Matthew's place. But it's midseason. They take the battlegrounds with them wherever they go; it's just convenient.</p>
<p>Sure enough, it breaks off when Leon prods him off, squinting at his screen and tapping out a message intently. Then he gets up and starts to hunt for his clothes.</p>
<p>Matthew rolls over to watch him, lazy. "You goin'?"</p>
<p>"Yep." Leon's hair is sticking up and there's pinch marks on his sides, disappearing into the dark of the hallway.</p>
<p>"Like that?" Matthew grins. "Ugh. You could shower."</p>
<p>"Yeah?" It comes back muffled. "You could go fuck yourself."</p>
<p>"Hey!"</p>
<p>Leon reappears hauling his bag in with his discarded pants slung over his shoulder from where they must've been abandoned in the hall. He looks around, frowns, and delicately moves the pile of fresh dry-cleaning off Matthew's chair onto the floor before setting his bag down there.</p>
<p>Matthew narrows his eyes. "Seriously, are you going home? Did they just leave you here?"</p>
<p>Leon, pulling real clothes out of his duffel bag, just gives Matthew a look.</p>
<p>Matthew holds up his hands. "Fine. If they find your frozen body in a ditch halfway back up to Edmonton in the morning, I'm just saying, I was not responsible."</p>
<p>No response. Matthew glances back again eventually to see Leon's mouth doing something funny as stands there, tilting his head.</p>
<p>Leon has his clothes in his hand when he shifts his weight and reaches over to scrub at Matthew's hair: wordlessly, violently, and just gently enough so his fingers stick in the tangles and yank a little when he pulls away.</p>
<p>He exits looking for the bathroom. Matthew lets him open a closet door and struggle with the hallway light switch before he finds it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Matthew does walk him out, obviously. To the elevator. Leon gets three points and two minutes for hooking against Minnesota two days later, so clearly he finds his way back to his people, somehow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Leon likes to start shit. People just don't talk about it. He doesn't market himself well, in Matthew's opinion, but Leon seems perfectly happy with that. Given how badly he fights, it's probably a good call.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On December 11, Matthew gets upwards of sixty messages from people he knows. DMs, voice memos, Instagram stories, a couple actual emails. Mostly texts. One of them is a cupcake emoji — not even a real cake — and a middle finger emoji.</p>
<p>Matthew looks at it a long while, chewing on the inside of his mouth until his cheek muscles stop twitching.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"> - </span>🧁 🖕</span><br/><br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="https://rat-crimes.tumblr.com/post/633725627627880449">it's</a> <a href="https://cellyszn.tumblr.com/post/636433674853924864/theres-this-kind-of-petty-and-then-theres-this">only a</a> <a href="https://matthewtkafuck.tumblr.com/post/190486666446/19-29-the-best-of-friends">game!</a></span>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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